An essay- review of Face by Sherman Alexie
By Ernest M. Whiteman III
In all honesty, I have never read an entire collection of Sherman Alexie’s poetry. I guess that means I’m a bad Indian, a bad reviewer, and a bad Native expert. How do you review a book of poetry? Do you read it all in one reading. Yet, as I type this, the book lies silently beside the laptop I tap the keys of.
I find myself picking it up and reading one or two, in part or in whole. Then, I simply put it back down again. And think about what I should be writing. The coffee on the other side of the laptop grows cold and I get a swirl of equilibrium as I have drunk almost the whole size medium on an empty stomach.
I was first introduced to Sherman’s poetry through the movie he made, “The Business of Fancydancing”. Sure, a banal way of being introduced to his poems I agree, but it was only after that that I begin reading more of them on-line. I never did pick up a book and read it through. Sure, I bought one or two and gave them as gifts, but I, being a disinterested hack, never stopped to read the contents other than what I could find on-line, lazy Indian poem reader.
So, how does one parse out a reading of a book of poems? I could never get that. Does one actually take the time to sit and read the whole thing, in order, and make one’s mind up about whether or not it is to be liked, loved or hated? Sherman’s writing has always rendered these results, but never has his writing ever been simply disliked. That is too non-committal a result for a fan of Sherman’s Indian Writing.
Or do you wait to hear the writer read the poems before you decide to like, love or hate it? If that is so, why buy the book and read it to begin with and just wait in enraptured silence, like some psychic vampire feeding on the soul of this Native Son, for the words to pour from his mouth, like blood through split lips? And once they do, we assert some form of tacit ownership over those poems and words and voice and Sherman himself, as if he suddenly belonged to us and can dictate how he reads, speaks, or says something.
Then, we have the fucking nerve to complain when we have heard Sherman talk about that same story before, like he owes us. No one would question Robert Pinsky if he were to read “Impossible to Tell” a thousand times. In fact, we would marvel the feat, yet we own Sherman and his content for some reason, which is one of the dangers of being a Native poet that reads live.
Come to think of it, I never heard Sherman read any of his poems. I heard the actor Evan Adams read them in Sherman’s movie. Does that mean those poems now belong to Evan? I do not know.
Famous Native American writers are so rare we want to own Sherman and never let him disappear because our purchase of his books allows him to exist, just as his words and poems allow the rest of us American Indians to exist. It is at once, a fucked up logic, and also a vestigial connection to the Native experience one cannot get by birth. This is just one of the dangers and contradictions of a being live Native poet.
I have read many of his poems, loved some, liked some, never hated any, but disliked quite a bit. Does that make me a bad Indian, a bad reviewer, and a bad Native expert?
Face presents these problems for me, and more as I stare down its aqua blue hard cover with embossed silver letters, the library removed the overleaf cover, making it seem like a textbook of some vast import. What does that say about me that I did not even buy a copy but got it from a library? Am I supposed to instantly like it because Sherman is Spokane/Coeur d'Alene Indian?
I have stated before, that Alexie is the Kill Bill of Native writers; he is almost critique-proof. Because fans of Sherman like his work, no matter how good or bad it is, because to like it allows them a tacit connection to the cool lexicon of the genre or to the Native experience on cannot get by birth and you cannot convince them otherwise. Why should you? Still, we readers are fickle fuckers, as now he seems to have reached that stage of writing where it is also cool to tear into his writing as if to prove the label of “American Indian writer” means nothing in the context of proving their own expertise.
So now, I decide that I am simply going to read it in its entirety and write my thoughts at the end of that. Give me a minute here because it could get quite messy. As I do not get all of the different poem forms or how they work. But please, do not hold that against me. Blame my BIA contract school education, if you want, for wanting to spit me out into the world as quickly as possible, if that will make you feel better that the lack of a quality education as a youth makes me less qualified to judge poetry, poor Indian boy.
Which makes me think of so many other points in this world, about the nature of literacy and poverty, the nature of fame and fortune, the nature of writing and in my case, movie making. As stated earlier, Sherman Alexie once made a movie called “The Business of Fancydancing”, and of course wrote the screenplay to the renowned move “Smoke Signals” which became itself the Token Indian Movie. So much so, that Hollywood no longer makes movies by Native Americans. I would easily sell-out if it meant playing in the Star Trek, Batman, or the Godfather Universes.
Still, do you think that before Sherman became famous, well, famous for an Indian, that anyone cared what he thought about the Presidential Elections? Do you think that before Sherman became rich, well, rich for an Indian, that anyone cared that a Native man was making a movie? Why is that every white person only wants to pick the brains of the rich and famous Indian man? Does their wealth and fame translate into facts? But I, being poor, have only my dreams, and I stand on the other side of that mirror. I am as skilled as he in words and movies, I think. Do you think that because I do not have money or fame that anyone cares that I am Northern Arapaho?
Still, there is yet another flip of the coin, which of late has been proven NOT to be a fifty/fifty chance, that publishers would trust the writing of comic books about Natives in contemporary, realistic terms to the likes of non-Native Jason Aaron while dismissing Alexie in his desire to write comic books about fantastical, made-up Indians with superpowers. At once it is both a fucked-up philosophy, another form of connecting to that Native experience that one cannot achieve by birth, and simply the way it goes because somehow, whites are better at depicting graphic images of modern Native Americans than Sherman Alexie could ever be at depicting mutant ones. I guess being rich and famous still cannot allow you to represent your own race in a comic book, poor Rich Indian boy.
As it always goes, the real problem hides in plain sight upon our faces, Sherman’s face, on my face, and on our people’s faces.
All this weighs on me before, during, and after reading Face. So, am I supposed to love his poetry because we are both Native men? Or am I supposed to like his poetry because we are both writers? And still, am I supposed to hate his poetry because we are both Native writers? The blue book feels heavier in the context of these questions. Can, any non-Native ever get that?
Now, do not get me wrong. I know Sherman. I think he is a bright, funny guy. I like him. (Which, if you know me, is the highest compliment I can give.) I first met him in 2000 at a reading of his in downtown Chicago. He said all the things I had been wanting to say, for a long time, as a Native man in the world. But because he was famous, well, famous for an Indian, people listened to him. I could and have said the same things, but, because I am an anonymous Northern Arapaho, no one will care in spite of the fact that our experiences are similar.
Afterwards, I simply asked then if we could stay in touch and we have. Yet, even his wealth and fame have affected me as the last time we spoke I acted more an awestruck fan boy than I should have. But at that particular reading, when I videoed a short interview with him, I overheard some enlightened collegians complaining that they heard his stories before, and yet, still acted all silly and cloying in front of him. Wealth and fame matters, I guess, it makes people notice a Native American man, who is tied to a race of people overlooked for centuries and their disappearance deemed inevitable. They take notice and they listen. They then suddenly, can forgive the constant repetition of the words he speaks, like Pinsky and “Impossible to Tell”.
All this goes through my mind as I handle and read the book of poetry. I guess that is what it is supposed to do. But I am one Northern Arapaho man, and I know my experience is singular to my self only. So, I guess I can simply break my reading down into what I loved about Face, what I liked, and what I hated, maybe even into what I disliked. Then, a thought hits me; why even write a review if every reaction to a reading is as individual and diverse as the many people reading or hearing it? What would the purpose be other than to express authoritarian egoism, professional jealousy, or some link to the Native experience one cannot get by birth?
So now, here I sit at the other end of reading. Having finished it, does it make sense to review something that can only create thousands of individual reactions that will never be the same or correspond with one another? In the end, does what I write in response to this book even matter to you reading this?
One of the long held secrets is that an audience likes what it likes regardless of the good or bad review, that a reviewer really has no sway in determining our likes and dislikes. The only time we use reviews in regards to our movie watching or book reading is when we want to confirm our authority and intelligence to others, well, it got a lot of good reviews, see, everyone agrees with me. In a sense, the audience can both be smarter and stupider than the reviewer. Any Hollywood blockbuster bears this out. But, is this a review? Can I speak to what I liked, hated and loved about the poems in this book?
I liked how Alexie brought every poem to a point, but disliked that he carried the momentum beyond the logical ending of a poem as if to prove out his points. The repetition of poems about fathers, and how he tells us he has every right to write those kinds of poems over and over, and he has every right to be a pretentious asshole. Which seems pretentious in itself, but hey, he is critic-proof.
So now, I end up where I began; I liked some poems, loved others, hated none, but disliked quite a bit. But what I take away from this reading is all the questions and thoughts and feelings that passed through me before, during, and after, that had nothing to do with reading poetry and that I put down here in this writing. Did Sherman unload these same burdens into these poems, only to have another Native man pick them up and carry them? I'll carry those burdens for him for awhile, nameless and without gain, because that is what we as the reader do for the rich and famous writers.
2009 Ernest M. Whiteman III
